


Bridges

by themantlingdark



Series: Bridges [1]
Category: Thor (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-08
Updated: 2018-12-08
Packaged: 2019-09-13 20:36:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 20,025
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16899471
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/themantlingdark/pseuds/themantlingdark
Summary: Thor and Loki write letters and fall in love.





	Bridges

1.

It had already been dark for three hours by the time everyone finished up at the salon. Only eight o’clock, but it looked like midnight. Loki picked up a pizza on the way home and ate half of it for dinner, which was only accomplished by wrapping the other half up first and pretending it didn’t exist, because warm pizza was too difficult to resist otherwise.

After that, Loki wanted tea, which was convenient, as it was the only thing in the cupboards.

At work, if no one needed anything else done, Loki would do palm readings to entertain clients who were stuck waiting for their perms to set or their color to strip. Free of charge and purely for entertainment, as Loki religiously disclaimed. Reading palms was a pleasure when you had new hands to work with. Reading your own palm was dull, as it really didn’t noticeably change from day to day, and therefore couldn’t tell you much that you didn’t already know. Loki preferred to read tea leaves, which were never the same twice, regardless of whose you were reading or how frequently. Clients drank their tea strained, however, so there weren’t any leaves to read at work.

While the tiny, twiggy brown leaves danced through the hot water, Loki focused. Settled the mind. Silently greeted and called on north, south, east, and west; on above and below. Remembered that the matter that made up the body was as old as the universe itself and had spent time within stars. Concentrated on the future. On wanting to know what was coming. The year was young. Just two weeks old. It would be helpful to see it mapped out through December, like an outline for an essay.

Ten minutes had passed by the time the tea was finally cool enough to drink. Loki was careful to keep the upper lip close to the cup so that it would hold back the leaves. When there was only a tablespoon of liquid left in the bottom, Loki swirled the cup three times and then tipped it over onto the saucer to drain. After drawing three breaths, Loki righted the teacup and peered inside at the scattered leaves.

Most often it was like looking for images in clouds or in ink blots. You had to squint or tip your head or make rather generous allowances, but the effort was part of the pleasure. The things you saw were dependent on your mood and your experiences: a wavy line could be a bolt of lightning or a stormy sea; a circle could be a dinner plate or a wedding ring. The teacup’s handle represented the sitter, which allowed the symbols to move toward them or away from them. Time moved from the top down. The present and immediate future were foretold in the space between the rim of the cup and the height to which the tea had initially been poured. The second section went down from the fill-line to the base and described the events of the next two weeks, give or take. The bottom of the cup contained the answers to the biggest questions and might be a year away.

Loki laughed. The shapes formed by the wet leaves made the cup look like the astrological equivalent of a bowl of Lucky Charms.

At the very top, on the edge of the rim beside the handle, was the little symbol that resembled a simplified flower but was, instead, Pluto, who meant transformation, alchemy, and the underworld. Had that symbol stood alone, the sole symbol in an imminent position, Loki would have thrown the cup across the room and leapt into bed, but the leaves had more to say.

Further along the rim to the right, about an inch from Pluto, was the heavily abstracted eagle holding the thunderbolt--which really just looked like the numbers two and four had been caught getting it on--that stood for Jupiter. The stormy planet whose enormity meant abundance and good luck and whose namesake meant kingship, power, and protection.

Very near the top of the cup and close to the handle was the little circle with horns and a cross sticking off at opposite ends. The winged helmet and the caduceus. Mercury, the messenger, who had to do with communication, which included everything from divination to poetry. Loki’s nose wrinkled at the thought of writing verses.

Venus, reduced to the little ring and cross, was, appropriately, right under Mercury, promising love, beauty, art, pleasure, and romance. Or, as Loki liked to think of it, the good shit.

Below those figures was a long oval with parallel lines inside it. It looked exactly like a baguette. Bread was an easy one to translate. Nourishment. Necessity. Tend to your body.

There were a lot of tiny, blobby, isolated specks dotting the sides of the vessel. After several minutes spent staring, trying to connect the dots, Loki gave up and declared them all apples.

Then it was time to move onto the base. At first glance it seemed to be a stick figure of a cyclops with its arms in the air, but on further inspection Loki saw the separate pieces. There was a circle with a little arrow coming out its side and a dot in its center. Uranus, whose symbol combined Mars and the Sun. The fight and the light. Father Sky. Bringer of rain. The big blue planet that was lying on its belly in orbit. Rebellious. Eccentric. Uranus ruled the sign Aquarius, an air sign, which counted Thor among its numbers. Whether or not Thor actually remembered any of that, Loki wasn’t certain.

Finally, butted up against Uranus as if to puncture it, stood Neptune’s trident. God of springs, streams, seas, and horses. Ruler of Pisces, Loki’s sign, whose element was, rather obviously, water. In astrology, Neptune meant dreams, illusion, oneness, and addiction. But, if the name had its root in nebh , Neptune could be comparable to Caelus, the Roman equivalent of Uranus, making the two ice giants a roundabout set of twins. Astronomically speaking, stargazers this year would find them swapped, with Uranus in the constellation Pisces and Neptune in Aquarius.

Loki looked for any indication of what the big blue planets were doing together, but there was nothing else to aid interpretation. They could be allied or butting heads.

Knowing the clubs would be dead for another hour or two, Loki took a risky nap, opting not to set an alarm. A little over an hour later, Loki woke from a pleasant dream that involved watching snowflakes melt and pool together on a slide beneath the warm light of a microscope. Loki smiled at the good timing and then climbed out of bed to get dressed up and go out.

It was always irritating in winter. You could either suffer en route or suffer at your destination. The clubs would be hot, especially if you were dancing, so it was necessary to have a minimal base--just one layer if you could help it. The cloakrooms could get a bit iffy, so safely stowing your sweaters was never a sure thing, which meant that if you wore them, you would keep them on and do a lot of sweating. Loki had long ago decided that it was best to skip layers and wear cheap puffer coats that could be treated as disposable without any serious regrets. This policy meant that the trip would be painfully cold, even if one drove, since there was never a convenient parking space available downtown.

After stepping outside, it became apparent that walking the dozen blocks to the club would take less time than clearing the snow from the car. Plus the car was in the perfect spot, right in front of the building, which was much too good to give up, so Loki set off on foot into the oranges and umbers of the sodium-lit city.

Later that night, which was technically tomorrow’s morning but Loki hadn’t slept yet and was therefore unwilling to cede the day, Loki left the evening’s companion panting in soft flannel sheets and ambled off to use their bathroom. Loki liked strangers’ bathrooms. They let you see how people really lived. You learned whether there was a fuzzy coat of dust on the top of the toilet tank--almost always. Whether they used a bar of soap or just went with bodywash--bodywash, increasingly, which, for no nameable reason, Loki found unsettling. Electric shaver or a safety razor. Salon shampoo or bottom shelf generic from the grocery store. Fluffy new towels or mismatched threadbare ones that were probably hand-me-downs from their parents. And it always properly smelled like a bathroom. You grew accustomed to the unique perfume of your own home, but in a stranger’s house you could almost taste the air. The onions and apples in the kitchen. The way the musky scent of the dog had seeped into the carpets and the upholstery of the sofa. The bitter citrus of furniture polish in homes with old wood. The sour leather scent of old shoes and feet in the entry. The oil and sweat of skin in the bedroom. But nothing could top the riotous collision of clean bare body and absolute filth that one encountered in even the most immaculate bathroom. A reassuring reminder that everyone was a mess and everyone was trying very hard not to be.

Loki had the excuse of needing to work in the morning, but the faint snores coming from the bed meant there’d be no need to use it. Loki’s own bed was only two miles from this house and a walk seemed reasonable. It was also necessary: Loki never carried cards, not liking anyone to see the surname that was stamped into them, and had spent every last scrap of cash on drinks, so a cab was out of the question.

The lingering warmth of sex and wine let Loki feel cozy through the first quarter of a mile, but slippery sidewalks, mild intoxication, and four inch stiletto heels (which had already spent three of the last four hours walking, standing, and dancing) meant that it took a long time to get that far. Still, it was pleasant. Not another soul to be seen. Cinderella’s sleeping kingdom. The lights made the bricks and concrete show a soft, warm brown, like gingerbread, and the glittering blanket of snow on all the lawns and rooftops made for excellent frosting.

The exercise wasn’t as sobering as Loki expected it to be. Instead, walking grew steadily more difficult. Soon Loki’s strides had a span of only six inches and were no longer moving in a straight line. Pauses began to overtake progress, but it wasn’t troubling. It was a treat to window shop by the rosy glow of the streetlights, away from the jostle of the daytime crowds, free to stare uninterrupted at the cozy displays of cable-knit sweaters and cashmere throws. It felt like Loki’s own little world. And it seemed to have warmed up quite a bit. There had been a very brief spell of shivering at around the quarter-mile mark, but that had passed and Loki was no longer clenched against the cold, but instead loose and relaxed. It was if the air was that ideal temperature, somewhere in the low seventies, that kept human bodies happy. Perhaps a warm front was coming in. There was often a January thaw.

At the midpoint of the route there was a park with sidewalks running from corner to corner. At the park’s center was a paved square where a huge evergreen stood strung with lights, all twinkling a soft warm gold. Lured by the sight--and by the benches it illuminated--Loki opted to take a break from walking in heels and sat down to soak up the view before the end of the season.

2.

The first ring of the phone served as a wake-up call but went otherwise unrecognized. The second one registered as a ring, but Loki couldn’t gauge its direction and couldn’t feel it buzzing and so began to press on pockets in an attempt to discover it. For some reason that failed to yield any information. Loki couldn’t imagine or remember when or why it had seemed like a good idea to fall asleep outside. The hard bench seemed to have dulled every nerve and muscle. It was necessary to stand and supervise the hands as though they were foreign entities, guiding them clumsily with the elbow, shoulder, and body and hoping that when they were withdrawn from the pockets the phone would be held in their fingers. It had ceased to ring by the time that was accomplished, but at that point Loki was determined to defeat the bloody machine and pressed the call button beside Thor’s name as though it would spite the screen.

It worked, which was exceptionally satisfying, but Loki’s fingers were still too numb to feel the phone itself. It was carefully placed face-up at the end of the bench and then Loki lay down and curled up beside it, with the right ear above the speaker, so that there’d be no risk of dropping it. Dropped calls were a thing everyone disliked, if Loki recalled correctly, like mosquito bites and the taste of ibuprofen-

“Hey,” Thor said. “Sorry. Did I wake you up?”

“Nooo. Jus’ cou’n’ ge’ t’ th’ phone.”

“Been out on the town, eh?”  Thor asked, and Loki could hear the smile in it, which was warm and soothing, and as inescapably exciting as ever.

“Sssstilllllout,” Loki answered.

“Still out?”

“Mmhmm.”

“It’s so quiet,” Thor noted. “Oh shit, are you with someone? I didn’t mean to interrupt.”

“Noooo’m ommuhway home.”

“Oh, good. Cab? God, tell me you’re not driving.”

“Noooo ’m jusss walkin’.”

“Not far, I hope. The cold is dange-

“Oooohfuuuuuck,” Loki groaned. “Nuh... No, I… Sorry, noooo. Nooo, waaait, I liiiiied. I lied. I wasss walkin’...  but I ssstopped. I sstop’ t’… stop’ t’ rest.”

“You stopped to rest?” Thor asked.

“Yep.”

“Fuck,” Thor breathed. “Where are you now, Lo? Do you know the address or the intersection? Can you see any landmarks?”

Loki was pleased with the quiet curse at the beginning of Thor’s reply. It sounded worried and loving and a bit angry with the world, but not with Loki in particular, which was ideal, really.

Loki couldn’t remember the answer to Thor’s question, however, and had to look around.

“Uuuhhhhhmmm… Oh! Th’ park!” Loki announced, probably a bit too loudly because for some reason it felt like a triumph. “Yooou knooow. Th’ one wi’ th’ tree.”

“The Christmas tree in the city square?”

“Yep,” Loki chirped, and then hummed happily, because, yes, come to think of it, almost all the parks had trees, but of course Thor would know which park and which tree. It was a very Thor thing, to know like that.

Next, Thor made the surprising request that Loki please curl up into a ball. Loki boasted of being ahead of the game on that front, which yielded another satisfying bit of swearing from Thor. There was a faint scratch on the line as Thor shifted the phone and then a new voice chimed in, loud and unfamiliar.

“911. What’s your emergency?”

Thor answered, almost as loudly but somehow more pleasantly.

Loki attempted to eavesdrop, wondering whether Thor had a burglar or had started a kitchen fire, but the conversation was too fast to follow, and the effort seemed to add a lot of weight to the eyelids.

But then it was just Thor again, though Loki wasn’t certain whether the third party had hung up or had simply stopped speaking. Loki didn’t mind the extra company as long as it didn’t cut into talking with Thor, who was using that low, soothing voice again. The one that was just for Loki.

“Is the Christmas tree still lit then?” Thor asked.

“Mmmhmm, ’t’s th’ brightest thing.”

“Good, I’m glad they’re not being cheap about the electric bill.”

“Yesss, ’s too pretty t’ unplug… they sh’d leave it up allll yeeeear.”

“They should,” Thor agreed. “I’ll leave mine up for you. How’s that?”

“Mmm, ’s good.”

“Did you ever put one up?” Thor asked.

“Noooo. Nooo room. Wanted a big one. Jus’ did lights over th’ doors instead.”

Thor had a lot of questions about the lights. What sort of bulbs were in the strands? _LED_. What colors were they? _Blue_. Did Loki leave them on all night? _Yes_. Was it hard to sleep with the brightness? _No, they were very dim and it was like being at the bottom of the sea._

Loki wanted to ask questions too, but couldn’t remember the word for the glass room at the back of Thor’s house. That was where Thor’s Christmas tree was. It was the perfect place for it because it meant the tree could live in a big pot, and it stayed there year after year, getting bigger. Not a greenhouse. The word ended with _ium_. Loki began working through the alphabet, hoping it would jump out.

“Alluviummm? Nooo… ’s not ’n aquarium either, but I do like thoooose. Oh! Is it atrium? Nuuh. Noooo. Nope, it’s got the wallllls ’n’ everything… fuuuuck… ummmm...”

Thor kept the conversation going with little nudges, moving Loki from letter to letter.

“Does it start with B?”

“Noooo.”

“How about C?”

Loki gave increasingly slurred answers. Soon the replies were just consonants that trailed off into hums as the mouth refused to move around the words.

Gymnasium.

Palladium.

Pericardium.

Planetarium.

Sanitarium.

Solarium.

Solarium. Yes, that was the one.

But Loki’s lips and tongue wouldn’t entirely say it.

“Sssssssssssslrm.”

It should have been more irritating. Possibly the sort of thing worth crying about. But two very bright lights had appeared. Brighter than all the little ones on the Christmas tree combined. Almost too bright to bear.

“Loki? Is that you?”

Thor’s voice came from two places at once. One by the lights, and one by Loki’s ear. Two Thors. That would be something.

“Mmm,” Loki confirmed, and then one of the lights was blocked by Thor’s body.

“Lo, I need you to stay awake. Stay with me, okay? I’m going to move you,” Thor said, and Loki felt the brush of fingers as Thor picked up and pocketed the phone. “Tell me if anything hurts.”

And suddenly there was one arm under Loki’s neck and another at the backs of the knees and everything was gently swaying.

When Loki’s vision settled it was trained on the dome light in the ceiling of Thor’s truck.

Then came some strange game, like a challenge from a road rally. They were trading clothes in the front seat of the closed cabin while the vents roared hot air at them. Thor took off one hat, which revealed a second hat. After gently removing Loki’s wig, Thor put this second secret hat on Loki’s head. It felt weird, but it was Thor’s, so Loki left it. Then Thor was whipping down the zipper of Loki’s flimsy puffer coat and wrapping an electric blanket around Loki’s body. Loki could see the cord plugged into the dash with the adapter for the cigarette lighter.  

“Uh oh… ’d I pee?” Loki mumbled.

“Did you pee?” Thor asked, attempting to clarify and sounding a bit baffled, only half paying attention, busy zipping the coat up again so that it would hold the blanket in place against Loki’s body. “ _Oh_ , no, you didn’t pee,” Thor soothed. “I’ve got the heaters on in the seats.”

“Oooooh riiiight. Always feels like ’m sitting in peeeee.”

“Yes it does,” Thor agreed. “Loki?”

“Mmm?” Loki answered, eyes fluttering open, unable to recall closing them.

“Lo, can you tip your head back and swallow for me?”  

Loki did so while Thor dipped down to stare at the workings of the throat. Satisfied, Thor then took off two scarves and wound the warm hidden inner one around Loki’s throat. So many secret clothes. Loki had never seen such a thing.

A thermos appeared, with its funny, stubby straw flipped open.

“I need you to drink this for me. It’s just honey and hot water. I didn’t have time for anything else.”

Thor carefully proffered the canister and Loki, eager to carry some weight in whatever it was they were playing, determinedly puckered up and took a pull.

“That’s it,” Thor coaxed. “Perfect. Sorry it isn’t cider or cocoa. I’ll get you something better later, I promise. I just need you to finish this first.”

Loki hummed and kept drinking, keen to remain worthy of Thor’s promises and praises. Warmth returned to places Loki hadn’t realized could become cold: the teeth, the tongue, the throat, the esophagus. Strange sensations. Almost unreal. Maybe more than almost. Perhaps none of this was happening and Loki was still asleep in a stranger’s bed, only dreaming of the faint tremor in Thor’s fingers as they offered such an unlikely drink.

When the thermos was empty, Thor buckled their seat belts and started talking to the stranger again.

“Breathing isn’t too bad. Could probably be better. Pulse is slow, but it’s always been about fifty-eight. Yeah, I can smell it, let me check. Loki?”

“Hmmm?”

“Can you remember which drinks you ordered tonight?”

Loki had to think hard, which had become inexplicably difficult. The drinks had been easy to order. That particular club was always running some special to pull people in on weeknights. It had been something Loki liked to drink, which meant wine was involved.

“Ssss...sssiiix dollar sssangria.”

“Good,” Thor encouraged. “And do you know how many you had?”

“Shiiiiiit… shhh… ummm… shiiiii. Oooohokay I hadth… I haaad three twentiessss in my pocket an’ I spent all of ’em.”

“Okay, and what time did you get to the club?”

“Uuuuhhh…before ’leven… an’ thennnn… thennnn I wen’ home withhh, uhhh… withhhhh… Daaaana? I think? at, uhhh… oooh, like, one… one-ishhhh.”

Thor bestowed more praises and went back to the person on the phone.

“Probably eight between ten-thirty and one. So to Mercy then? South entrance? Will they be ready? Yes, please. Thank you so much.”

Thor started driving very slowly. They were right next to the Christmas tree. One wasn’t meant to drive in the park, Loki remembered. And they were in an enormous pick-up truck. Impossible to miss. It made Loki think of puppies, moving at a glacial pace toward the thing they weren’t supposed to touch, as though their lack of speed would somehow render them invisible. Loki began to giggle, but then they were approaching the road and Thor’s arm came up to pin Loki’s shoulders to the seat as the front tires went over the curb and down onto the street.

“Loki?”

“Mmhmm?”

“You with me?”

“Mmhmm.”

“There’s a fire on the east side. All the ambulances are over there. I have to drive you to Mercy myself, okay? It’s going to be slow and bumpy. Try to keep yourself really still, and let me know if you need help.”

Thor was talking nonsense, but the gist of it seemed to be that Loki just had to sit there deliberately doing nothing. Playing passenger while Thor drove them somewhere. It was like being a kid again.

Despite Thor’s warning, the trip was fast and smooth. It only got bumpy when more strangers swarmed the car and loaded Loki onto a gurney.

After that everything was very odd, even by the standards that had been set earlier that evening. Loki’s blood was put through a machine meant for hemodialysis, where it was warmed before being returned to the veins. During this time, Loki sat, wrapped in blankets, on a boxy vinyl-upholstered recliner that had casters for feet. It was quite possibly the ugliest piece of furniture in existence, which was an unexpectedly impressive achievement.

Then there was a warm room with more warm blankets, warm pads, a warm saline IV, and warm oxygen that had to be breathed in through an uncomfortable mask. Hours passed in blur of monotonous beeps, inadvertent naps, and boring white ceiling, interrupted only by Loki’s attempts to discover Thor’s whereabouts. These resulted in being shushed by the nurses--and by the clumsy oxygen mask.

But then, finally, there was a small warm room and a big warm Thor, who was looking rather wilted with hat-hair and wispy strands of blond clinging to the sheet of sweat on the brow. Loki stared at the sharp blue eyes in the soft gold face. A confusing juxtaposition. Alarming. In theory, anyway. Somehow in the flesh it all came together quite pleasantly. That was understating it a bit, but finding the words to do Thor justice was too exhausting a prospect at the moment, so Loki stuck with staring and understatement. For a split-second it seemed that even Thor’s eyes were sweating. Loki tried to recall whether sweating was something that eyes were known to do, then remembered, with a blushing rush of embarrassment and a little leap of the pulse, that, no, that was called crying.

“Thanks for returning my call tonight,” Thor said, blinking back tears and sobbing once at the end of the sentence.

It seemed odd to see Thor weep with gratitude over such a simple thing.

“What else would I have done?” Loki wondered aloud.

Thor’s face crumpled and Loki heard a ragged intake of breath.

“Most of the time you wait until the next morning before you call me back,” Thor choked.

“Why’s that? Do I have something better to do?” Loki asked, and got a wet laugh for an answer.  

Loki found it impossible to imagine anything better to do.

Thor pulled a chair up to the bedside, then leaned over the guard-rail at the edge. Close and conspiratorial. Loki liked both of those things.

Thor reached to smooth down a few inky curls that were fiendishly defying gravity at the top of Loki’s head. Loki kept staring at Thor’s eyes. They had shaken off their edges somehow, softening and opening so that the round blue of the iris overpowered the sharp angles made by the meeting of the upper and lower lids.

“Did I hurt you when I took off your wig?” Thor asked, wincing at the possibility, lips pulling into a thin line. It made Loki want to pinch the corners of Thor’s mouth together in the hope that the centers would pop out and plump up again.

“Hmm?”  Loki hummed, still too focused on Thor’s lips and the drag of Thor’s fingers to fully register the question. “Something about my wig?”

Thor smiled and nodded. It was another small thing that felt like a substantial victory to Loki.

“Did I hurt you by pulling it off?”

“Oh, no,” Loki murmured. “Not that I noticed. It doesn’t hurt now.”

“I’m glad you had it on,” Thor sighed, still finger-combing Loki’s curls.  “It worked a bit like a hat--and a scarf. Kept you warm.”

The wig had been long, thick, blond, and wavy, and had rendered Loki almost unrecognizable.

3.

Thor drove Loki home after the doctors gave the all-clear. The trip was quiet as the events of the last twelve hours surfaced and clarified in Loki’s thawing mind. Out of all the things that had happened, Loki kept coming back to the dreams that had occurred during the brief naps at the hospital and to Thor’s face. The latter had been both the most and least happy Loki had ever seen it. Never just one or the other. Always each and entirely. The dreams were slipping away already, dissolving into daylight, but a few moments were still fixed in Loki’s mind’s eye. In one, Loki had been in a cold dark sea, rising slowly but steadily from its depths and gazing up at a bright star that showed clearly through the water’s surface. In what seemed like a different dream, though it was impossible to say for certain, a salmon was stranded in a shallow pool that was all that remained of a river after a drought. A gold-haired figure was pouring water into the glorified puddle to make sure the fish didn’t dry out.

Loki briefly emerged from these thoughts when Thor had to make a quick stop for a squirrel that darted across the road. Thor’s arm flew out to the right to keep Loki’s body from sailing toward the dashboard. It was the sort of thing Loki would have hated at age fifteen, certain back then that there was some condescension in it. Now it seemed the sort of thing worth looking forward to.

Out the window the trees blurred past in a grey tangle of branches. All the leaves they’d worked so hard for had been snapped off by the cold months ago, then unceremoniously burned or swept up and taken to the same “away” that all the trash went to. A row of young sugar maples near a stop sign struck Loki as particularly tragic, standing naked and alone, up to their shins in snow, defenseless against humans and seasons. Loki imagined Thor going from trunk to trunk, wrapping them up in secret scarves. It was strangely cheering.

Thor was only wearing jeans and a henley with a flannel button-up over it, having insisted that Loki borrow the enormous parka and both of the scarves. Loki had been teasing Thor about said parka since the previous November. The thing was beyond ugly. But now the coat was making up for its homeliness by being the warmest thing Loki had ever worn. It was also improved by smelling exactly like Thor.

Once they were home, Loki sat up against a heap of pillows, bundled in blankets on the soft double bed, staring across the studio apartment as Thor went through all the cupboards and the fridge in search of anything resembling sustenance. Frigga would have tsked disapprovingly and side-eyed Loki throughout the fruitless search. Thor simply took stock while the kettle boiled.

When it had steeped, Thor brought the tea, fished Loki’s arms out of the sea of blankets, and set the porcelain saucer in the left hand.

“Drink it before it goes cold,” Thor said, leaning over to press a lingering kiss to Loki’s forehead, probably gauging Loki’s temperature in the process. “No sudden movements, remember?” Another kiss. Long again. But Thor didn’t need a second measurement, so it was not a practical thing, this second kiss. It was simply that Thor wanted to give it. “Just rest and stay warm until I get back. I’m going to run a few errands.” And then a third kiss, like punctuation. Not as long as the previous two, but firmer. A period. Full stop. Stay put.

Loki nodded, content to sit still until Thor came back to begin another sentence.

The grey mid-morning light coming in through the glass block windows at the top of the wall looked like dusk beside the bright glow of the bedside lamps. Loki had the basement unit in a house that had been converted into four apartments. In the summer it was cool, dark, and damp, which kept Loki’s complexion happy and was a welcome respite from all the light and heat. In the winter it was surprisingly warm, as it had carpeting instead of hardwood, and also because it was the first unit to get the air from the furnace, which was in the utility room next door.

Loki fretted about the temperature outside, afraid that Thor wouldn’t be safe in it. Loki hadn’t been safe. It was only by luck that Loki was still alive. Luck, or something like it. Destiny. Fate. Fortune. Providence. Serendipity. Magic. The stars. Loki wondered whether Thor was another of their synonyms. Even Thor’s fingertips had felt warm last night. Loki suspected the reason had something to do with lots of unpleasant exercise and baked chicken breasts, but preferred to believe that it was because Thor’s astral body was engaged in nuclear fusion.

Loki wondered whether Thor believed in magic anymore. Practiced. Talked about it with Frigga. Lived with it forever in the back of the mind. Though, if Thor was some form of magic, Thor might not think to dwell on it. Fish don’t know they’re in water. Flight is nothing to a bird.

Loki remembered Thor’s instruction to drink the tea before it went cold and dutifully began sipping. Thor had strained it so there were no leaves to read this time. Loki pictured Pluto, perched on the rim of the teacup from the night before, and wondered whether there was any hope of not being dramatically altered by a near-death experience. Wondered if the eye at the center of Jupiter’s Great Red Spot had been watching last night. Wondered what Mercury and Venus had in store, and whether the ice giants waiting at the end of the year were meant to be benevolent or menacing. Loki also wanted to know Frigga’s interpretation of the whole mess but didn’t want to admit to the hypothermia and the trip to the hospital.

The muffled whump of the front entry door shutting upstairs pulled Loki’s head out of the stars. Then came the crumpling sound of paper grocery sacks shifting. The thump of feet on the steps. Keys jingling and the the lock clicking and the whoosh of the door arcing inward over the carpet.  Thor had been home to bathe and change. The blond hair peeking out from beneath the stocking cap was fluffy with having been blow dried, and the jeans Thor was wearing were a shade lighter than last night’s pair.

Loki hummed in satisfaction as Thor unpacked the shopping bags. Stacks of microwave dinners--the good ones that were always appallingly expensive, but Thor could afford it. Discus, shot put, javelin, hammer throw, long jump, pole vault. Gold medals in each, two Olympic games in a row, with college sandwiched in between. A twenty-five thousand dollar bonus from the USOC for every gold. And Thor was so squeaky clean and so easy on the eyes there had been no shortage of sponsors and opportunities for endorsements. Thor’s fit body on breakfast cereal boxes yielded a small fortune. There was prize money from world competitions. Then there had been clever investments and, afterward, working as a ranger at Folkvangr National Park rather than resting on laurels. Loki did makeup at the major fashion shows for a while, but the cost of travel, accommodations, and socializing soon ate up all the profits. Staying put in a cheap hometown apartment actually meant holding onto more money even though the salon job paid less. Still, Loki’s finances were not exactly what passed for secure. The siblings couldn’t touch their trust funds until they were thirty. Thor had turned that corner almost a year ago; for Loki it was still over two years away. Letting Thor pay had been Loki’s policy for ages, though, long before Thor’s trust money was freed up. But Thor never mentioned it and had always motioned for the bill whenever the server brought it.

Working was why Loki loved microwave meals. It was ridiculous to spend all day earning the money to pay for food and then to have to spend half of your free time preparing the damned stuff and cleaning up the mess you made in the process. It made Loki want to skip meals altogether in favor of sleep, but that was unsustainable. So, instead, it was order a pizza, pick up pad Thai, or hit the taco truck. Anything short of actually cooking.

Thor was unpacking apples, oranges, and bananas. Nuts, yogurt cups, and granola. Canned soups, dried fruit, apple cider, and instant cocoa. A sack of croissants and tub of chicken salad to spread on them. But there was also a plastic bag that clearly had take-out clamshells stacked inside.

“Where’d you go?”

“Lou’s.”

“Yes,” Loki groaned. “Did you get the breaded mac ’n’ cheese?”

“No, it’s all steamed broccoli. Of course I got the breaded mac ’n’ cheese, what do you take me for?”

“What else?”

“Smoked meatloaf, cornbread, and sweet potato mash. Oh, and bourbon pecan cake for dessert.”

“Heaven,” Loki sighed.

“Brown sugar and butter.”

“Corn and sweet potatoes are vegetables,” Loki tried, and Thor snorted.

Thor made Loki stay put in the pile of blankets. They ate a late lunch in bed while watching Wayne Goss and Pixiwoo on YouTube.

“How’s rangering?” Loki asked, as they started in on dessert.

“Rangery,” Thor smiled, giving the standard reply, then following it with an atypical grimace. “Actually I wish I’d told you about it before. We’ve had a lot of hypothermia in the park this winter. Mostly the cross country skiing noobs. They weren’t wearing enough layers and they were in such good shape they weren’t exerting themselves while they skied, so they weren’t keeping warm, and they were out there for hours.”

“Jesus,” Loki breathed, envisioning fit young bodies gliding toward death in broad daylight. “I didn’t realize I was that drunk last night,” Loki admitted quietly, between bites of cake.

“I don’t think you were,” Thor said, and gave a soothing ruffle to Loki’s hair before smoothing it down again. “It’s the way alcohol combines with the cold. You know how you feel warm when you drink?”

“Mmhmm.”

“It’s because your blood vessels are all dilating, which makes you lose heat faster. And normally when you get cold, you shiver--muscles heat up when they twitch like that and it keeps you warm--but alcohol shuts down the shivering response.”

“Winning combination.”

“Yep. It all creeps up on you and then the drop in body temperature messes with your head so you can’t make the decisions to fix it.”

Loki took a deep breath and nodded and Thor got up to clear away plates and cartons.

“Shit. Did I keep you from work?” Loki winced.

“It’s fine. The park’s been quiet with the cold. I can call off again tomorrow if you’re still feeling out of sorts.”

“Oh, fuck, I forgot to call the salon.”

“I called. You’re fine.”

“Should I go in tomorrow?”

“Only if you feel up to it.”

Loki went off to use the bathroom and was surprised--senselessly, but nevertheless--by the bare face staring back out from the mirror. Every trace of foundation was gone. The galaxy of winter-faded freckles that stretched from cheek to cheek and speckled the bridge of the nose looked like a photo negative on Loki’s face. The little remaining mascara had left the lashes and settled into the creases under the eyes. Loki looked ten years younger barefaced like this, all dewy-skinned and apple-cheeked. Which was why Loki wore a lot of makeup and carefully contoured hollows into the cheeks and temples. People seldom took you seriously if you looked seventeen--and when they did it was typically a red flag.

Loki returned to find that the bed had been hastily made, which was confusing. Thor was never one to do things by halves and there was no one on hand to impress.

“Am I expecting company?” Loki asked.

“No, you’re getting back in,” Thor called from the kitchen, where Loki could hear the hum of apple cider being microwaved.

Loki climbed under the blankets again and found that the bed had stayed warm because it had been made up instead of left open in a jumble after Loki exited. Insulation wasn’t a subject that had ever held Loki’s interest before. Thor had done a science project on it in third grade.

When Loki asked for the day’s agenda Thor said it was staying warm, eating, and sleeping, which was met with hearty approval. There was always something lovely about a sick day--provided you didn’t actually feel sick. It was like you were stealing something inestimably precious, or stepping outside the world for a little while.

Sometimes Loki would wake from a doze to hear dishes being put away or the floor being scrubbed. The closet door opening and the faint clack of hangers on the rod. Sometimes it would be quiet and Thor would be just inches away on the bed, half reading and half watching and waiting for Loki to wake up. Each time Loki’s eyes opened, the room had darkened with the setting sun, while Thor seemed somehow to have grown brighter. Perhaps it was some strange assumption or expectation of the mind, adding light to warmth, knowing the sun gave off both and making it so that Thor did the same. Perhaps Loki was odd and had a sixth sense for infrared energy, like some snakes and vampire bats were known to possess. Or maybe it was just that Thor’s soul was showing, as impossible to miss as the body that belonged to it.

It was late when Loki finally felt rested. Nearly nine. Thor called in a last-minute carry out order from the Chinese place two blocks east and hurried off on foot to pick it up. One of the most mundane things imaginable, but, to Loki, it was now filled with peril. Worse than the grocery trip before. Thor was going out into the cold dark. Loki picked up the phone to check the time every few seconds, and, within three minutes, succumbed to the urge to call and make sure Thor was still breathing.

“All right?” Thor asked.

“Are you warm enough?”

“Yep, apart from my nose, but that’s hopeless. Did you think of anything else you’d like me to pick up while I’m out?”

“No, don’t stay out any longer than you have to. Is it as cold as it was last night?”

“Yeah, it’s supposed to be like this for the next two weeks at least.”

Loki kept chattering until Thor had to pause and pay for dinner, then the conversation resumed and Loki listened to the cruel scratch of the wind against the microphone of Thor’s cell and the scrape of feet on salted pavement.

They slurped wonton soup and crunched egg rolls while they watched their favorite episodes of Arrested Development. The show always made them feel like they had their own shit together in comparison. Thor and Loki had gotten all their fighting out of the way back when things were supposed to be easy: when Thor was fourteen and snuck out every night to go drinking; when Thor cooled off on the drinking and instead spent every spare second training for track and field; and when Thor got so good at so many sports it led to lots of travel and time spent away. Loki had taken everything Thor had done personally. Had assumed that the alcohol and athletics were, first and foremost, Thor’s means of differentiating and escaping from an undesirably odd little sibling. This assumption had been maintained despite Thor’s denials, apologies, and constant displays of affection throughout those years--and despite Thor’s agonizing, almost-daily blow-ups with Odin. Back then, Loki only felt better if Thor was crying about it too, which, after Loki’s tirades, Thor most often was. It took trips to New York, London, Paris, Tokyo, and Milan for Loki to realize how good it felt to be busy. To feel useful. To get out from under Odin’s thumb. And only then did it occur to Loki that that had likely been what Thor was after all along.  

Things had been comfortable since they both moved back to Gladsheim. Being on their own feet, under their own roofs, and immersed in their own lives all but erased Odin’s power over them. Thor had Mondays and Tuesdays off, so when the salon asked Loki about scheduling, Loki asked for those days, too. It let them go out to late dinners and long lunches together. The current state of things was unusual, however, and not solely for the trip to the hospital. Most often the siblings met somewhere or picked each other up at the front door and went out together. Loki went over to Thor’s on Thanksgivings and Christmases after Frigga suggested Thor should host during holidays, with the unspoken explanation that Odin behaved better in other people’s homes. But Thor had only been inside of this apartment when Loki needed help getting furniture down the steps.

Loki wondered if the combination of basement, food, and human being smelled funny. Thor’s house smelled like... air. Loki’s eyes narrowed at that assessment. Air… fresh, clean air, which was partially the exhalations of plants--which were plentiful in Thor’s house--and partially... water. Loki winced. Water… brilliant… which smelled a bit like the taste of snowflakes caught on the tongue, which was reminiscent of stone. Thor’s house also smelled of dirt, which was in the pots of all the plants there and which smelled like… air, water, and stone. Loki gave up on pinpointing the perfume of Thor’s home and chalked the failure up to the lingering symptoms of hypothermia.

Loki ate slowly, but dinner still couldn’t last long enough. So, when they were done, Loki sagged against Thor with as much patience and subtlety as could be managed, firmly pinning Thor’s shoulder in place against the pillows.

“Would it be too overbearing if I stayed over and kept an eye on you tonight?” Thor asked, after they’d finished another episode.

“No, you’re nice and warm,” Loki hummed, burrowing further into Thor’s side. “Stay as long as you like.”

After being handed that victory, Loki set an alarm and fell asleep.

4.

Loki was feeling well enough to go into the salon in the morning, so Thor left at six to go back home and get ready for work. Loki promised to text with health status updates at regular intervals. They parted with another of Thor’s lingering thermometer kisses.

Loki didn’t have to be at work until eleven, which left ample time to scrub off the fug of the club, the splash of sangria on the throat from when someone jostled Loki's elbow during a sip, the sweat of dancing and sex, the strain of the hospital, and the day spent marinating in the whole mess of it.

The apartment was the tidiest it had ever been. Thor had been beavering away while Loki slept. All the clothes were freshly laundered and organized by style and color within the closet and dresser. Makeup was grouped by brand, type, and color. The patina of foundation-made fingerprints that had built up on all the bottles, tubes, and compacts had been wiped off so that everything looked brand new. Brushes had been washed and shaped back into perfect points before they dried. Mirrors had been cleaned. Loki laughed at how easy it was to find everything with Thor’s logical little systems--and at how many duplicates had been acquired over the years because the originals couldn’t be located when they were wanted.

It was still bitterly cold outside, but Loki wore every warm layer on hand and the chill only nipped the nose and fingertips, which was normal.

At eight o’clock, while attempting to leave the salon, Loki’s legs seemed to stop of their own accord, refusing to pass through the back exit, halting at the threshold. Loki had pushed the door ajar, fully intending to pass through, but then let it fall shut again to stop the draft of air that was slipping inside like ghost. It made Loki’s skin crawl as every hair stood on end and brushed against the insides of shirts and trousers. Loki stared at the window. It was too dark outside to look out the window; one could only look at it, seeing the reflections of the room and of the face, dim from being backlit. Loki’s breath fogged the glass and sent more cold air swirling back across the cheeks.

It felt as if the frigid darkness that would reign after the death of the stars had reached back from its bleak future to wait outside this door. Like it was politely offering Loki a leg-up after that fall from the pale horse the night before.

Loki’s hand went for the little rectangle in the back left pocket. Soon the screen was glowing with Thor’s number, and after that it was ringing, and then Loki’s pulse was screaming pick up, pick up, pick u-

“Hey, how are you feeling?”

“Hey,” Loki gasped. “Good. Good. Just, uh, having a minor meltdown about walking from the building to my car.”

“Oh, fuck, I didn’t think of that. You want me to come get you?”

“No,” Loki sighed. “I mean, yes, but don’t. I need to suck it up and do it, I’m just... being ridiculous.”

“Once bitten, twice shy,” Thor soothed. “It’s only natural.”

“Right,” Loki said, trying to suppress a tremor in the throat. “Tell me about your day then.”

“Not many visitors, as you can probably imagine. Saw three snowy owls though.”

“How do you know it wasn’t the same owl three times?” Loki asked.

“Different patterns.”

“You can remember them?”

“It was a really slow day,” Thor laughed. “Hmmm… what else… Oh, I saw a fox hop up into the air to pounce on something. That was a first. They usually bolt as soon as they see me, but they’re either used to me now or they’re too hungry to risk missing out on a meal.”

Loki pumped a fist as the engine started up, then put the phone on speaker and pulled out onto the street, coasting on Thor’s voice. On the front porch, Loki snatched the mail from the box and then bolted indoors and down the steps.

Thor came by less than half an hour later bearing beef stew made with the family recipe and a loaf of bread from their favorite bakery. There was also a cashmere throw in a calm and almost comically wholesome oatmeal color. Thor seemed a bit shy about the blanket and hovered for a moment before laying it over Loki’s lap without a word. They sat up in bed again as they ate, watching Monster Factory videos and trying not to laugh their food through their noses. Thor stayed for a few hours after supper was finished, with an arm slung over Loki’s shoulders, radiating heat from every inch.

Loki looked back and forth between their bodies. Thor’s was full, but uniformly firm. Unmistakably fit, even beneath layers of winter clothing. All the muscles were still well defined when they were resting slack on the mattress. Even the slim, fragile parts of Thor, the ankles and fingers, looked nonetheless sturdy. Loki’s own body had become what Loki secretly referred to as skinny-fat: slender and entirely devoid of muscle tone. Almost fluid. Able to be artfully arranged by the cut and weave of clothing. Increasingly twiggy in the limbs and doughy in the midsection, and Loki supposed that was inescapable when one had entirely avoided exercise since high school.

A little after midnight, Thor sighed and sat up.

“I’ll try to stop helicoptering,” Thor laughed, with a small, self-chiding shake of the head.

Loki got kisses on the cheek and temple and then Thor went out into the winter night again like it was nothing. No cry, no shudder, no hitch in the step. Loki could hear the smooth progress of feet on the stairs, the front door swinging open, and footsteps moving out onto the sidewalk.  

Loki waited the necessary ten minutes and then called to see if Thor had made it home all right. The answer was affirmative.

At the tiny nineteen-fifties dinette in the corner of the kitchen, Loki sat, wide-eyed, eating one of the apples Thor picked out and wondering how you went about thanking the person who had literally saved your life. The words had been sitting on the tip of Loki’s tongue throughout the evening and again during the phone call. But the conversation would have gone more or less along the lines of _Thank you for saving my life. You’re welcome._ And that would have been it. Three seconds, tops. Loki had already lived two full days that could be credited entirely to Thor. A phone call felt like an insult, and a text was even worse.

Loki took a break from thinking about it and got up to change into thick socks and fleece pajamas. After that, Loki went to the kitchen and stood, corkscrew poised and wine in hand, unable to recollect any conscious decisions that had led there, and fighting back a rapidly increasing urge to vomit. The hollow whisper of the bottle sliding back into the wooden rack was loud in the small kitchen. The slosh of the purple liquid was sickening.

Habit haunted Loki’s mind. Its thoughtlessness gave it initial appeal, but the repetition that bred it destroyed any hope that there was something intuitive about it. It had been three years now. The same job. The same routine. One hundred and sixty weeks that were largely indistinguishable. Never the same dance partner at the clubs. Never the same stranger’s bed afterward. Consistently different and, in that sense, always the same. Nothing had been built or accumulated. Nothing sought or smashed. Always moving without ever aiming. It was largely stressless, but, upon inspection, unexpectedly unsatisfying. Fine was the word for it, with that hint of bitterness at not having a better answer--or at not having the right person to whom to tell the truth.

Loki’s methods had made sense at their inception. A means of having as much of this world as could be managed. Being as much of it, even if it meant being less Loki--or perhaps especially. Loki had traveled by rail and planes. By drinks and skin. Tasted cities and bodies and left a trail of perceived and potential selves behind. One Loki that would be and another that wouldn’t, splitting off at every decision.

Life at home had felt so small. It had seemed imperative to expand. To plant the feet on other shores and lay claim to them like that, swallowing up their miles by striding down their streets. To reach back and take root in bygones. To see the self cycling endlessly through the stories of the past. To look up and discover some shared trajectory in the motions of the stars.

But it had all left Loki feeling like a skinned knee--both the abraded, living injury and the doomed shreds left behind on the asphalt. There would be time for endless iterations and expansion after Loki was dead. It was inescapable. Just a few more degrees of body temperature lost and Loki could have been one with the infinite already. With eternity. With equilibrium, monotony, and stasis. Ashes scattered into the bay before the week was out. It was a mindless thing, to mingle undiscerning like that. Something best left to dust. As long as Loki was intact, then there was still a chance to be specific. To accept and reject. Seek and find. To accrete and orbit a sun of one’s choosing.

In the bathroom mirror Loki saw the dull unbroken curl running along the hairline that meant an old habit had awakened--twisting the hair rhythmically and relentlessly until oil and the insistence of fingers had locked it in place. This little vice always surfaced when there was an itch that needed scratching or a problem that wanted solving. Apparently, cheating death hadn’t been enough for this nervous system. There were still bigger fish to fry. Loki sighed and brushed out the curl so it wouldn’t look so grubby.

Back out in the bedroom, the crystals and candles sat gathering dust on the tiny nightstand that barely passed for an altar. Loki considered casting a spell for Thor--possibly several spells--with Thor’s permission. For health. Success. Love. Protection. It would be better done in spring, but the winter solstice had passed and the days were increasing, so the timing wasn’t too bad. Only Loki had never been good at spells. Thor had been. Probably still was, knowing Thor. Sigils: this will happen. Loki was better at divination: what will happen? Regardless, Loki’s spells could never compare to their object. Nothing could match that ineffable thing that Thor had--and was. That good-natured gliding through the universe. That certainty and strength. That almost blinding brightness. There wasn’t really room for improvement. Spells would be moot.

Loki sighed and went to the kitchen for a glass of cider.

The mail was still fanned out on the gold-flecked nineteen-fifties formica of the dinette. The ubiquitous Bed Bath & Beyond flier was blue in a sea of dingy white credit card applications, grey grocery ads, and garish pizza coupons. Half of them had shitty clip art snowflakes at the borders and the other half were prematurely pushing Valentine’s Day.

There were snowflakes somewhere in this apartment, Loki remembered. They’d popped up recently during a search for something else.

Loki pulled out the center drawer of the desk until it drooped. The postage stamps were all the way at the back, buried under dried up ballpoint pens and loose paper clips, still tucked into the hazy glassine envelopes they came in. They featured an assortment of winter and holiday designs amassed over the years for the Christmas cards Loki always intended to send, but never quite managed to. Buying stamps each December was as far as Loki ever got. There were two separate issues of snowflakes. There were also gingerbread houses. Nutcrackers. Close-ups of sweaters with evergreens and snowmen knitted into them. There weren’t any cards or envelopes, however, so Loki would have to improvise.

 

_Dear Thor,_

_I meant to say this before, but spoken words felt so flimsy. Thank you for saving my life and for spoiling me rotten afterward. And for not making me feel like the fool that I’d been._

_I thought perhaps on paper those sentiments would feel more sturdy. Having written them out now I’m not so sure. I owe you everything I am and have. If there were a deed or a title to me, I’d sign it over to you._

_I’ve heard it said that whoever saves a life becomes responsible for it. Did you just make yourself my scapegoat? Don’t worry, I’ll be good...ish._

_Love,_

_Lo_

 

Loki had to brave the cold, however briefly, to put the card in the mailbox and, for the first time, to raise the little red flag that warned the postal worker that there was outgoing mail within. Loki had to wrench it as it had rusted into place with weather and disuse.

 

 

6.

When Loki returned from work the next night, the card was gone and there was a fresh batch of junk mail in its stead. It felt a bit like magic. Loki wondered how long it would take to deliver a letter that was only traveling a mile. No service on Sunday, and Monday was Martin Luther King Jr. Day, so not then either, but by Tuesday, surely.

Nine o’clock came and went with no word from Thor. Feeling neglected at best and forgotten at worst, Loki briefly wished to unsend the letter, but then remembered the reason for sending it and realized that the current state of spitefulness was only possible thanks to Thor’s phone call. Still, when Loki’s phone chimed with a text half an hour later, Loki ignored it for what felt like ten minutes but was in fact only three.

 _How are you feeling?_ had been Thor’s message.

 _Back to normal, as far as I can tell,_ Loki typed.

 _Up to anything yet?_ Thor’s reply was almost instantaneous.

Loki wanted to lie because it was Saturday night and it felt a bit pathetic to have an empty agenda, but lying might mean missing out on seeing Thor, which was even less appealing than looking like a homebody. Loki settled for watching a few Vines to kill time before replying.

_No, I’m just vegging._

_Had dinner with Hogun and now the usual suspects are trying to wrangle me into watching a movie at Fandral’s. Told them I was going to see if you were free. Now they want you to come too. Up for it? I can pick you up on my way. Or I can bail on them and we can do something. Or I can go alone if you’ve got plans._

_Pick me up on your way_ , Loki answered, and then ran to the kitchen to scarf cold leftover pizza, having run out of time to eat a hot dinner. After scrambling into fresh clothes, Loki stuffed the three bottles of wine that were left in the rack--and which were now no better than an emetic--into a shoulder bag to fob off on Thor’s friends, then darted upstairs to wait by the door.

Thor’s friends were warm in every sense of the word, and it was relaxing to sit sandwiched between Thor’s side and the arm of the sofa, staring mindlessly at _Magic Mike XXL_ and eating fistfuls of caramel corn.

After the movie was over, the siblings used the excuse of having to work in the morning to take their leave. When Thor pulled up outside Loki’s door, Loki looked over and saw Thor looking too, smiling softly, lit by the glowing gauges on the dashboard. The distance between them was too great for one person to bridge. It would be necessary to meet halfway if no one was to be left hanging.

“Give us a kiss,” Loki said, tipping over to the left, grinning.

And Thor smiled wider, leaned over, and did it. Right on the lips. Like Christmas. Absurd that it should be as simple as asking.

“Wait, does this mean you see me as the asshole from the train in _A Hard Day’s Night?_ ” Thor asked, with eyes narrowed and chin jutting out, lips pinching back a grin.

“No, that would make me John, which is impossible, obviously, because I’ve got better hair,” Loki replied, with a toss of the head that sent glossy black curls sailing. “And you couldn’t pay me to wear a beard or a center-part,” Loki added feigning a shudder.

“Just me, then, eh?”

“Never just,” Loki corrected, and climbed out of the truck.

During lunch at work on Sunday, Loki sat in the salon’s employee lounge, eating a microwaved burrito, rereading old texts, and wishing a new message would pop up at the bottom of the screen. Sunday was their Friday. They usually went out for dinner and then drinks. Loki’s stomach soured at the thought of the latter, but the phone chirped a few seconds later to make up for it.

 _I’m beat. I think I’m going to get a bucket of fried chicken and a vat of mashed potatoes and watch a movie at home tonight. Probably baby Kevin Bacon in_ Tremors _. You’re welcome to join me, but don’t let me keep you from anything._

Loki’s lips curved up while the contrarian forehead rumpled above. Wish granted, but Thor had never been too tired to go out before.

 _You had me at bucket of fried chicken_ , Loki typed.

 

Loki arrived just as Thor was pulling into the driveway from picking up their dinner. As promised, the Christmas tree was still lit up in the solarium, glowing a cheery gold in all directions. Loki wondered what would have happened without the landmark of the tree in the city square. Whether it would have been too late if Thor lived further away. Whether it would have been possible to recognize or describe any other location at two o’clock last Thursday morning.

They sat on the sofa, eating as they watched their movie, knocking their knuckles together every time they reached into the bucket to grab another thickly battered breast or thigh.

The silent roar of winter was muffled by the walls of Thor’s house and thrown back from the windows by the warm light that streamed out of them. The air inside smelled stubbornly green. Spring’s unexpected stronghold.

True to the text message, Thor proved to be beat, and fell asleep an hour into the movie with a glass of water still in hand. Loki had to slowly pry it free and set it on the coffee table to avoid a small catastrophe. Loki’s eyes soon abandoned the screen in favor of watching the sleeper. The colored light from the movie flickering across Thor’s features. The breast rising almost imperceptibly with the slow breaths. The face slack and the pink lips slightly parted. The expression--indeed the whole body--relaxed and unguarded.

Here was the true calendar of the last three years. The two of them. Their constant circling. Moving in separate orbits for five days before overlapping on two. Their weeks aligning with each other but off kilter with those of the rest of the world. Consistent, but not entirely taken for granted. No assumptions or showing up unannounced. Loki, always awaiting Thor’s invitation; Thor, forever extending it. Decided and deliberate. Not left to chance like waiting to see who turned up on a dance floor looking for a lay.

Loki pictured the procession of bodies that stretched back through the last nine years. Their figures all quite similar and their faces all a blur. Names gone now too. A lot of Michaels, Jessicas, Ashleys, and Matthews, probably, statistically speaking, though Loki couldn’t actually picture any. But say Thor and Loki could only see one face.

Two days together out of every seven. The bulk of the last thirty-six months had been missed and what was salvaged had been abridged. So many subjects shorted in conversation or skipped over entirely because there hadn’t been enough time. So much set down but then pulled up again before it had a chance to take root. Life had been caged in by occupations and pushed to the margins. Demoted to periphery.

Thor as something peripheral. Loki’s gorge rose at that like it had with the wine.

Thor’s head had fallen back against the cushion with the carelessness of sleep. Loki’s fingertips alighted on Thor’s throat, fully exposed and strangely vulnerable now. The skin was hot and always pebbled, like braille in silk. It leapt up against Loki’s fingers as the blood coursed below. Loki’s own blood had been out into an incubator, which was a bit surreal to think about. Blood leaving the body to improve its condition. A perfect paradox. Like the joy and sadness that had been on Thor’s face at the hospital bedside.

Loki watched Thor’s eyelids fluttering with a dream and wondered how one went about stopping time. Catching lives and thoughts. Keeping them. Comparing them. Exchanging them.

 

 

7.

Sunrise found them still on the couch. It painted them a cheerful orange that only Thor saw, as Loki remained out cold until the sun was high and yellow. They opted not to go shopping on the holiday, not liking to reward the businesses that had stayed open. Instead, they started a fire in the fireplace, made and ate too many pumpkin pancakes, and drifted in and out of naps during a marathon of _The Joy of Painting_. Loki borrowed Thor’s clothes rather than going home to change. It was a childish pleasure, like putting on a costume or disguise. And, somehow, always reminiscent of a cat chinning the sofa to mark its territory.  

On Tuesday, Thor dragged Loki to half a dozen different shops to buy a proper coat, boots, gloves, a hat that wouldn’t result in hat-hair, and warm socks that weren’t itchy against Loki’s ankles.

When Loki got home from work on Thursday night, there was one piece of mail in the box.

  


_Dear Loki,_

_You’re welcome, and thank you again for returning my call that night. I almost didn’t call you because it was so late. Now I feel sick when I think of what could’ve happened if I hadn’t._

_Thank you for the handmade card. It’s amazing. I can be your scapegoat if you like, but I prefer the idea that when someone saves a life, they save an entire world._

_Love,_

_Thor_

 

 

 

8.

 

_Dear Thor,_

_That’s the sort of thing that scares me, actually. That I might be one distinct, self-contained universe. That the world through my eyes is trapped in me and can never align with anyone else’s._

_Glad you liked the card. Your goat-scape card is the best piece of mail I’ve ever received._

_Love,_

_Lo_

 

 

9.

_Dear Loki,_

_Yes, your world is unique, but it isn’t trapped within you, and you’re not trapped in it. Words and pictures are portals. Art is just another name for bridge. I can’t imagine many people would bother to write or paint or even speak if they really believed it was impossible to be understood._

_We look like special snowflakes, but we’re all just water._

_Much love,_

_Thor_

 

 

10.

_Dear Thor,_

_Come to think of it, being known is as terrifying as not. I’m probably only palatable superficially. Putting fake jizz and a shitting gazelle on a Couture painting is just the latest--and a very minor-- episode in a long line of bad decisions._

_Is this what you thought adult life would be like?_

_Love,_

_Loki_

_p.s. Where are you getting your postage stamps?!_

 

 

11.

_Dear Loki,_

_The only useful thing I learned in the Olympics was that everyone is secretly a freak. Olympic village was… “Caligula would have blushed.” There’s nothing new under the sun and no sense in keeping so much about ourselves a secret. All it does is make us feel alone._

_I want a giant version of the shitting gazelle for the living room._

_I thought adulthood would feel more consistently meaningful. Life has been a ceaseless shifting of the goalposts. I thought the world would make more sense as time went on. Instead it all makes less sense by the minute. Now I’m happiest when I’m acting like a kid. It’s all backward._

_The stamps are from ebay._

_Love,_

_Thor_

_P.S. No part of you is unpalatable._

 

 

12.

Loki got up early and went shopping for art supplies before work, armed with coupons and rushing through the aisles, overwhelmed by the options and the prerequisite skills so many of them necessitated. There’d been extra money in the bank lately from not going out to the bars, not buying bottles of wine, and not having to pay for food since Thor had done so much grocery shopping--and kept texting invitations to dinner. In the end, Loki opted for a few colored pencils, hoping they’d be enough like eyeliner to feel familiar.

_Dear Thor,_

_It was on the tip of my tongue to tell you this when it happened, but I couldn’t find the nerve. It was when the electricity went out in the ice storm and you asked me to stay over (thank you, btw). I was watching (instead of helping) from the doorway as you lit the fire (and I will never not be jealous that you have a fireplace in your bedroom. now i see why you bought that ridiculous old house) and I got that sense of having arrived--like when you’ve been away on vacation and you finally walk through your own door. It happened again in the middle of the night, but maybe more so. I woke up and you were putting fresh logs on the fire and stirring up the embers. Just a silhouette with flames and sparks all around you. It felt like we’d been there before. I wonder if it was what I pictured when I imagined growing up--the essentials of sleeping and staying warm._

_Do you think it’s just deja vu’s trick of the mind? Could it be some memory? Or vision? Or memory of a vision?_

_When and how do you act like a kid?_

_Love_ ,

_Loki_

 

 

13.

_Dear Loki,_

_I had a similar experience that night. It must have been just before I woke you up when I was fixing the fire. You were attached to my left side like a barnacle and I couldn’t get out of bed without moving you. I started slowly sliding my shoulder out from under your head and you said (whined), “Thor, don’t bother with the fire, I know a better way to keep us warm.” But it wasn’t the innuendo that stunned me, it was the deja vu. I knew how the sentence was going to end the second you started speaking. The orange light from the fireplace on your face was familiar. The smell of my toothpaste on your breath. Your limp arm around my waist. All of it._

_As for acting like a kid, I suppose I do most of that in other seasons. I like digging in my garden and drawing what grows. Running through the sprinklers on hot days. Going completely overboard when I’m decorating for Halloween. Those sorts of things. Hanging out with you lately feels young to me. I like it._

_Love,_

_Thor_

 

 

14.

_Dear Thor,_

_You’ve been holding out on me! I still can’t believe that whole walled off area behind the house is your garden (thank you for the snowy tour). I always thought it was a neighbor’s lot. You have the actual secret garden in your goddamn backyard. You sneaky little shit. Fair warning: I’m crashing your flower beds as soon as the ground thaws. My green thumbs are itching for dirt, but there’s no sun in this little tomb of mine, and no room for flower pots anyway._

_Also, I was peeking through your sketchbook and saw sigils. Holding out on me again! I’ve been wondering if you still practice. It looked like the final designs were missing. Have they been activated. If so, which ritual did you use? In any case, you’re full of surprises._

_Love,_

_Lo_

 

 

15.

_Dear Loki,_

_Yes, they’ve been activated. I used passion, nosy._

_Magic is… common sense, really. You think about what you want until you can pin it down with words and draw it. And then it’s almost like signing a contract with yourself. You can’t sit in your vacuum of a bedroom 24/7 and expect anything to happen. You have to go out and take advantage of opportunities that arise until you get to your goal. Say yes and pay attention. To me it’s always felt like a way of tricking oneself into taking good advice (by making the advice your own, which always makes it easier to stomach). With spells, anyway. I don’t know what’s going on with our deja vu. Ordinarily I’d be tempted to ask our teacher, but something is telling me not to. It feels like there’s a web being woven between us. I don’t want to shift and snap the threads._

_Love,_

_Thor_

 

 

16.

_Dear Thor,_

_Have you had more visions or deja vu or whatever it is we’re doing? My dreams have been like a rainbow coming into focus. Moving from cool, dark, hazy colors into crisp, warm, bright ones._

_I hope you had a good fap activating your sigils. I had my fingers crossed that you’d gone for orgasm over meditation. I’ve always found the passion ritual to be the most auspicious option._

_You owe me a selfie so we’re even-steven. All my pics of you are digital._

_Love,_

_Lo_

 

 

 

17.

_Dear Loki_

_Are your dreams moving from unpleasant to pleasant? Or are they just undergoing a change in lighting? I’ve been sleeping too well to remember mine._

_Here’s your selfie, Steven._

_Love,_

_Thor_

_P.S. I’ve never drawn hair before. And I never want to draw it again. JFC._

  


 

18.

_Dear Thor,_

_My dreams weren’t exactly unpleasant to begin with. They were just slow and dark, full of vast formless spaces. Lately they look a lot like this painting. Twenty years since my first look and Redon is still my favorite. As is Ophelia._

_Love,_

_Loki_

 

 

 

19.

By the end of March, even the snow that had piled up at the edges of driveways had melted away. The air had a warmth reminiscent of breath. Light lingered in the sky a little longer every day. Birds were pouring back in waves, finding food amid winter’s wreckage that no one else’s eyes could see.

Loki hadn’t been dancing since the hypothermia incident and decided to remedy that. A tiny dive of a club at the edge of town did an eighties dance night and had a bartender with encyclopedic knowledge of cocktails. A Between the Sheets seemed safe, but when the drink drew close to Loki’s lips the scent was as repulsive as wine. The glass quickly found itself abandoned at an empty table.

The alcohol in the other dancers’ bodies was much easier to spot when there was none of it in one’s own. Loki saw clumsy limbs, flushed cheeks, and sweaty foreheads. Low eyelids, leaden feet, and dopey grins. Physically, it was almost effortless to dance without drinking, but it took a strange mental toll. The dim lighting didn’t conceal as much from a sober mind. It was impossible to switch off the awareness that you were more or less dry humping the air around you in the hope that the sight of it might inspire someone to wetly fuck you afterward.

Two songs in, Loki slid off to lean against the wall and then sent a text to Thor.

_What are you up to?_

_I made chocolate mousse_ , Thor replied. _It isn’t as pretty as the one from the recipe, but it tastes amaaaaaazing. Should I save some for you?_

_Yes._

A hand squeezed Loki’s arm before another message arrived and someone leaned in close to be heard above the fuzzy thump of the music.

“I was hoping I’d bump into you again.”

It took a long second to put the name to the face, and Loki only remembered it because it had been mentioned once to Thor.

“Dana, isn’t it?” Loki asked.

“It is. I’ve been wanting to apologize--I feel so bad--I forgot to tell you you were welcome to stay before I fell asleep the last time I saw you.”

“Oh, no, nothing to worry about,” Loki smiled. “I had to work in the morning. Couldn’t have stayed anyway.”

“Still, sorry I just passed out like that and abandoned you. It was rude of me.”

“Not at all. But thank you for thinking of me.”

The screen lit up with Thor’s reply.

_You better hurry over. It’s hard to resist._

“Sorry. I have to head out,” Loki said, shaking the phone once by way of explanation and giving Dana one of those flat, tucked-in smiles that looked regretful, pleasant, and apologetic all at once. “Got an offer I can’t refuse.”

They nodded their heads in a polite farewell and Loki bounded up the sticky club steps and out into crisp night air.

Thor had the windows cracked and the fireplace going. The house had the scent of a backyard during a bonfire. Most of the lights were off. The open floor plan made the few bulbs that were on seem pleasantly dim, diluted by so much space. The Christmas tree at the back of the house was still lit and had acquired strands of pastel fairy lights for spring on top of the gold ones it always wore now.

Thor’s assessment of the chocolate mousse had been inaccurate: it looked lovely, piped through a star-shaped pastry tip into old, chipped stoneware bowls; and it tasted much better than the stated amazing.

“Slow at that club?” Thor asked, seeing the smeared ink stamp on the back of Loki’s left hand.

“Just dull,” Loki shrugged. “It’s always the same.”

Thor hummed and nodded.

After Loki was done eating they wandered out into the backyard barefoot. The grass was flat and dry beneath their feet. The ground was still frozen and the rain hadn’t come yet to wake the earth, but it wouldn’t be far off. They stood in the faint starlight and plotted out what they wanted to plant and where in Thor’s garden, accounting for when it would bloom and how tall it would get so that the different flowers and foliage wouldn’t obscure each other.

When their toes got cold they came back inside to warm up by the fire while they watched _Clueless_ for the umpteenth time. “That was way harsh, Tai,” had been their go-to response to a good burn--or a brutal truth-- since they were teenagers.

Halfway through the movie, Loki turned to lie lengthwise on the couch and then snaked both feet up inside of Thor’s sweater, resting them against the hot, bare skin of the flank. Thor’s elbow dropped down and pressed in lightly, pinning them in place and incubating them. It made Loki dread the balmy seasons. Thor had kept quite close ever since the hypothermia. Always ready with a blanket or a sweater or a warm arm to drape over the shoulders. But soon it would be seventy outside. Then eighty. And, after that, if the last ten increasingly-warm years had been any indication, ninety. They’d be sweating with the windows open, taking cold showers, craving ice cream, and complaining about swamp-ass all day. And there’d be no cover. No cause. No excuse for this comfortable half-cuddle they’d been lazing around in for months now--though there’d still be the desire for it, on Loki’s end of things, anyway.

The sense of time running out left Loki frantic, like a squirrel in September storing acorns, darting out in front of cars in the rush to get enough. When they sat down to a meal, which was nearly nightly, Loki’s feet rested atop Thor’s beneath the table, toes flexing and grasping, tugging at Thor’s pantlegs. When Loki got caught staring, which happened half a dozen times at a minimum whenever they were together, eye contact was held instead of averted and wide lingering smiles were exchanged. When they stretched out on the couch to watch a movie, Loki’s head would seek Thor’s lap or shoulder for a pillow. If it was the former, Thor’s fingers would seek Loki’s hair. On those days, Loki went home with no recollection of the film they’d just seen and with the weave of denim firmly stamped into one cheek.

If they were apart, Loki found everything much harder. Hours were spent staring at the phone, wanting and waiting, trying to will it to ring. The days that went by without a letter from Thor were worse than a disappointment--they bordered despair. If calls and texts were few or if Thor had other obligations, Loki went to bed blinking back tears in the dark, swearing that this had to be the end of it. That it needed to stop, cold turkey, just like the drinking. It felt pathetic to be so dependent on someone else for joy. To be so addicted. So entirely at another’s mercy. Like some tiny green thing that lived so completely by the sun’s light it could be killed by one cloudy day.

It struck Loki that stars were things that thrived by burning. That suns weren’t solely warm points of light that spun you in their arms. They could be so much more. So much worse. The really big ones. The ones that got so heavy even their own light couldn’t get escape. The ones you could never get away from once you’d come too close. You had to leave them behind or be consumed. Loki wondered whether it was too late and the event horizon had already been crossed.

Rage began to take root in joy, slipping in as tiny tendrils, slowly sending fractures through what had seemed so solid. Late night texts that didn’t receive replies until the following morning burned Loki all night long. It was infuriating that Thor could sleep through something so vital. Could ignore it like it was nothing. Like life didn’t depend on it. Loki began to despise anyone who got so much as one second of Thor’s attention, believing it to be a kind of birthright. But then Loki’s ultimate trust in Thor’s judgment would lead to insecurity. Perhaps the other people were more deserving. And then inadequacies would haunt Loki’s thoughts. I’m not clever enough. Not funny enough. Not fit enough. Not beautiful. Too selfish. Too negative. No ambition. No money. Too strange. Too damaged. Too dirty.

And Loki remembered that this was how it started. This was the part of the cycle in which the heart broke. The beginning of the bitterness that led to falling out of love.

Which meant that Loki was in love. It was a tardy and backward way to crash into the truth, and Loki choked out a laugh at the realization before breaking down into strangled sobs at the impossibility of the options.

Loki could keep going down this path and let love die a long, piecemeal death. There would be a lot of hiccups along the way. Hope would keep flickering like a will-o’-the-wisp, unreachable, unpredictable, and unextinguishable. Thor would still be there, beautiful and doting, with a smile that couldn’t help but promise heaven. It would always kindle hope. And hope could drag a thing like this out for a lifetime.

The alternative was to pin love down beneath blinding lights and excise it. It would mean one spectacular injury rather than heartache that would linger for months and leave a worse emptiness in its wake. It seemed more merciful to kill love than to let it starve. It would be like starting a new book rather than reading the same one over and over until its words had lost all meaning. The slow path of hope would be a living death. Amputation was the only cure.

But the thought of it alone engendered in Loki a sense of loss that had no rival. Streams of tears fell over racking sobs that left cramped muscles in their wake.

Since January Loki had felt increasingly solid. Steady. Pointed. Purposeful. Not just busy, but engaged. Increased and increasing. Now all that accretion just meant that there was more to lose. It had been a frantic swim up from deep water only to find that the air was blocked by six feet of ice as clear as crystal. It made Loki feel small and stupid. Gullible. A songbird flying into a window and finding out the sky does end, bounced back into the flower bed with a broken neck.

 

 

20.

_Dear Thor,_

_Do you remember when we were little and the neighbors’ Jack Russell got hold of a baby squirrel? Damaged it beyond repair. You got it away from the dog and brought it inside and Odin wrung its neck. Killed it before I even understood what had happened. And then I was furious and crying and swore I’d never forgive. You seemed sad but relieved. I couldn’t fathom it then, but it finally makes sense._

_I can’t keep doing this. I know where I stand, but I don’t know where you are and the probability of your being where I want you to be is so slim as to be irrelevant. Unfortunately, the part of me that thought the baby squirrel could be mended also firmly believes that the one-in-a-million odds are in its favor. It keeps me hanging onto things that aren’t real. Inventing futures that aren’t possible. Making choices that will keep doors open for a guest who’ll never come. Waiting while life passes me by. I feel like I’ve started a cult and suckered myself into giving it my life savings._

_You probably already know what I’m about to tell you. I suspect I’ve been obvious. Still, this could be news to you, so maybe you should sit down before you read the next sentence._

_I’m in love with you. It’s been like breathing and beating my heart. Not something I’ve had to think about. Just a constant. Like the taste of my own mouth. I couldn’t see it until it started to crumble._

_I’ve been growing bitter as it’s gone on unrequited. My heart has started to feel hungry and thin. Which feels absurd, because you’ve given me so much of yourself. I’ve never had more. But the more I have of you, the more I want, and supply can’t seem to outstrip demand._

_My world jolts from light to dark almost daily. When we’re together or talking or texting or I’ve just received one of your letters, everything is perfect. You love me, we’re immortal, and anything is possible. When we’re apart and quiet it feels like I’m dying. I hate you, the stars have all gone out, and I’m convinced you see me as a family obligation... As entertainment. As an audience. An annoyance. An idiot._

_I can’t keep spinning like this. I can’t bear to be so angry with you and I can’t spend the rest of my life hoping for you. I need to learn to live without you. Maybe after I’ve done that (assuming it can be done) I can learn to live with you again in some new way. However, at the moment I can’t afford to let myself hope for even that much._

_Sorry to drag you into this mess. I’ll keep you out of it from now on._

_Take good care of yourself,_

_Loki_

 

Loki sealed the envelope, took it out to the public mailbox at the corner of the block, slid open the secure door, and dropped it in. There was no room for weakening or waffling now. No way to get the letter back out. On Tuesday it would go through the slot in Thor’s front door and that would be the end of it. The death of this life and the dawn of the next.

 

 

21.

When Loki got back from mailing the letter, the little white notification light on the phone was blinking. Loki set the phone on the floor and slid it under the bed, then went to the bathroom to wash away the mascara that had run, the foundation that had streaked, and the white, salty outlines of dry tears that went down both cheeks. After that, Loki used a bag of ice wrapped in a wet towel to bring down the swelling around the eyes, applied a fresh faceful of makeup thick enough to obscure all the lingering redness, and counted backward from one million to stay distracted while flat-ironing shoulder-length curls into stick-straight lines of ink that went down past the armpits. Finally. Loki put on a black chiffon blouse, tight black jeans, and a quite walkable pair of green kitten heels before heading out for the evening.

The first two weeks of April had been almost tropical. A few days scattered here and there had hinted at spring, but they’d been little islands, surrounded on either side by highs in the eighties and bright unbroken sunlight. The cool air that had come in over the past couple of hours was like a balm to Loki’s salt-cured eyes. It bred a wonderful self-doubling sort of pleasure: the body kept warm beneath the clothes while the chilly air kissed the bare skin at the backs of the hands and the base of the throat.

At the first bar, Loki ordered a shot of Chopin, tossed it back, and slowly exhaled in relief. With its oily whisper of apple, the vodka bore no resemblance to wine. Loki cashed out, went to the next bar, and repeated the order. By the time a venue with decent music and a busy dance floor appeared, there were eight shots in Loki’s otherwise empty stomach.

The music was loud and seemed to grow louder with each drink until it was woven into everything Loki heard, saw, and felt. The sound waves from the speakers were moving each cell in Loki’s body to their beat, causing vibrations to the eyeballs that made the music visible by blurring the rest of the room.

Walking felt like trying to water ski on a choppy lake where the waves kept rising up unevenly in front of you. The walls, floors, and ceilings had all been painted black. The steady lights were dim enough that they hid the edges of everything. The brighter lights blinked and spun and blinded the eyes for a full second with every flash. The dipping and twirling of the other dancers made it difficult to get any bearings. No matter which way Loki turned, it was impossible to find a constant. Nothing was reliably horizontal or vertical.

Loki opted to let all the strangers’ bodies act like waves and rode them toward the solidity of a wall. The paint was flat and sometimes tacky with sugary drinks that had been spilled months ago. It was difficult to slide smoothly along the surface with the uneven levels of friction, and two songs had played by the time Loki made it to the bathrooms with this technique. Unfortunately, the bathrooms were on the other side of the hallway and the stairs were at its end, so there was no stable surface to ride to the restroom doors. If Loki tried to go all the way back around the club, the bar would be in the way, and if Loki tried to cross here by the gap for the stairway, there was a strong chance of going over sideways onto the staircase.

Another song came and went and Loki still hadn’t come up with a solution better than crawling, but if Loki got down on the ground, there would be no guarantee of getting back up again. Plus the floor was even rougher and filthier than the walls, and Loki’s hands had to look nice for work.

“Youuu c’n go aheadda me,” Loki said, when another body lined up.

“God, your face matches your shoes.”

Loki looked down and saw green shoes, then turned toward the person who had made the observation.

It was the mirror. The speaker was Loki’s height. Was wearing the same clothes. Had light eyes, a familiar white face, and long black hair.

Loki looked down again.

The mirror was wearing red kitten heels.

Loki tried to recall how red-green color blindness worked, but couldn’t remember who saw what and how.

“How many have you had?” the mirror asked.

Loki attempted to count on fingers, but couldn’t come up with the names of all the bars or the number of drinks ordered at each.

“Vodka,” Loki answered, and hoped the reflection would award partial credit.

“Goddammit, I just got here,” the mirror sighed, and took out its phone. Loki tried to follow suit, not wanting anyone who might happen past to notice the discrepancies between the duplicate and its original, but the only thing in Loki’s pockets was a slim black wallet.

“Who are we calling?” Loki stage-whispered.

“Who do you think?”

“I dunnoooo… we don’ actually have a phone, soooo... Are we asleep?”

“Holy shit,” the mirror breathed, then perked up for the ghost-call.

“Hey, sorry. Loki needs a ride. Like, right now. At Nectarine. Bring a bucket.”

“Cab?” Loki guessed. “I wasssss jus’ gonna waaaalk home… laaaater though.”

“As much as I would’ve loved to watch that, this will be easier on everyone. Do you need the bathroom?”

Loki nodded.

The mirror helped Loki across the hall, through the door, and into a stall, then waited out by the sink.

“You’ve literally been pissing for a full minute. Were you doing shots?”

“Uuuuuhm… I think so?” Loki said, then sighed.

After waiting so long to use the restroom, the relief was better than any orgasm. Loki wondered about deliberately waiting to piss for as long as possible and mused that the satisfaction of the ensuing urination might eliminate the need to fuck anyone else ever again.

“That’s gotta be a gallon of piss by now. Did you do a gallon’s worth of shots?”

“Noooo,” Loki scoffed. “I di’n’ bring thaaaat much cashhh.”

“How are you still alive?” the mirror boggled quietly.

“Can’t stand up,” Loki called, and heard a groan.

“Are you sure you don’t want to throw up?” the mirror asked, opening the door.

Loki thought a moment.

“Not yet?”

“Love that confidence,” the mirror said, and helped Loki to the sink, then out the door and up the stairs.

The night air felt good. Soothing. Loki’s face had gotten too hot, and Loki’s stomach felt like it was made of rapidly melting ice. Apart from food poisoning and viruses, this had only happened the one time Loki tried Vicodin, so Loki hadn’t had enough practice to know if there was some technique for making nausea and vomiting less unpleasant.

Thor pulled up at the curb and came around to help Loki into the passenger seat, fastening the seat belt buckle, which was a relief, because Loki wouldn’t have been able to manage it and it would’ve been embarrassing to try and fail.

“What about the other me?” Loki asked, and saw Thor shoot a look at the doppelganger, which threw up its hands and dissolved into Sif.

Thor said thank you to Sif with a hug and a kiss, then pulled a bucket from the back seat and set it in Loki’s lap. Loki stared at the clock. Only midnight. For some reason it felt much later.

“Rolllll down th’ windooows an’ turn on th’ AC so I c’n hold it longer,” Loki whimpered, once the truck began to move.

“The sooner you throw it all up, the better,” Thor said. “I’ll roll the windows down afterward.”

At a stoplight, Thor did something with the car’s climate controls. Loki assumed the request for air conditioning was being granted. A minute later, Loki assumed all the heat and sweat were derived solely from the nausea.

“In the bucket if you can,” Thor said, at the sound of the first heave, and slowly pulled into a parking lot so that the car would be steady for what followed.

When that wave had passed, they continued onto Thor’s house. Loki had to stop in the driveway to use the bucket again, but made it to the first floor bathroom in time for round three.

“Here,” Thor said, once the vomiting had subsided, and offered a sporty, reusable plastic water bottle. “Just rinse your mouth a few times and spit before you actually drink any.”

Loki nodded and obeyed.

“Bed?” Thor asked.

“No,” Loki croaked, with a shake of the head, and curled up to sleep on the blissfully cool black and white tiles below the toilet.  

When Loki woke up, Thor was sitting cross-legged on the floor by the sink, reading. Grey daylight was coming through the textured glass of the bathroom window.

“Here,” Thor said again, and offered the same bottle, which was filled with something else this time.

“What is it?” Loki rasped.

“Gatorade.”

It was cold and sweet and pleasantly sticky, which soothed the acid burns in the back of Loki’s throat.

Loki fell asleep again. Woke again. Got more Gatorade.

After another nap, Loki felt like motion might be back on the table and slowly tipped up into a seated pose, though the bathroom wall did a lot of the work.

“Think you’re done throwing up?” Thor asked.

Loki squinted, gauging it, then nodded yes and drifted off to sleep to the sound of running water.

Loki woke again soon after to the dabbing and dragging of a wet washcloth.

“Keep your eyes closed so they don’t get soap in them,” Thor instructed softly. “Just let me get you cleaned up and then you can get on the couch. You’ll feel like shit all week if you stay on the floor.”

That sounded enough like wisdom that Loki gave an approving grunt.

It was dark when Loki woke up in the living room. Just the Christmas tree and kitchen lights were on. The area around the sofa was pleasantly dark, granting respite to Loki’s raw senses. The Gatorade bottle was sitting on the coffee table in a silver champagne bucket full of ice. The sight of it made Loki smile. The sound of the ice cubes shifting brought Thor over.

“Do you think you could handle some soup?” Thor asked. “Just instant chicken noodle, maybe with a few oyster crackers?”

Loki nodded.

“Can you open the windows so my face is cold though? It settles my stomach.”

“Sure.”

“I’m getting ripe,” Loki sighed, after the meal, still sitting slumped over the empty bowl at the grey granite counter. The porcelain caught the words and bounced them back up into Loki’s face, scented now with chicken noodle soup.

Thor helped Loki up to the second floor bathroom, which was tiled with green-grey slate that was easy on the eyes and echoed pleasantly. The shower had a bench at the back and a detachable shower head, so Loki sat down, aimed the jet of water over one shoulder, and let it loosen all the aching muscles that had knotted up along the spine.

Bathing felt new again in another person’s bathroom. Thor used things that smelled like a garden. Lots of lavender, rosemary, and lime. A bit of cedar and tobacco, too, which Loki now coveted, recognizing them from Thor’s hair and skin. All the little bars and bottles were from local sellers, probably bought at the farmers’ market. Opening jars and pumping little dots of lotion into the palm to find the best scent was a pleasant way to pass the time while curly hair dripped dry. Loki covered every inch of skin with cream, felt unexpectedly exhausted by the effort, shuffled out into Thor’s bedroom, and fell asleep in the middle of the mattress. Thor came by later and tossed blankets over the quietly snoring heap of naked sibling, then went downstairs to wash the clothes that had been strewn about the bathroom floor.

There was no clock in Thor’s room. After waking, Loki stared out the window for several minutes, but couldn’t determine whether the sky was dark because it was stormy, or if it was clear and the sun just hadn’t come up yet.

Loki stole pajamas from the dresser and went downstairs where the clock on the microwave revealed that it was half past ten. Soon after, a groan of thunder confirmed storms.

“Pancakes?” Thor asked, and pulled a pitcher of batter from the fridge when Loki nodded.

Loki went off to rest on the sofa and get out from underfoot while Thor was cooking. The day’s mail was sitting open on the coffee table. One piece bore Loki’s handwriting and some stamps Loki had found on ebay.

Loki peeked in the envelope and was surprised to find a thick stack of folded paper. Loki had expected it to be some fragile piece of artwork that wouldn’t have survived a trip through the postal service’s sorting machines.

The letter was dated Sunday. The fact that it had been delivered meant that today was Tuesday.

“I slept through the whole weekend?” Loki cried.

“You still have twenty-four hours before you have to be at work,” Thor soothed, which was true, and was a satisfactory consolation.

Three sheets of lined notebook pages. Loki read them and went cold.

“Have you seen this?” Loki asked rising and holding the letter at a distance from the body, as though it might possess hidden teeth.

Thor looked back over one shoulder, still busy at the stove.

“Yeah.”

“Read it, I mean?”

“Yeah.”

Loki cursed.

“I called Nectarine yesterday, but they hadn’t found any phones. Any idea where yours might be?”

“No,” Loki choked.

“Pancakes are ready,” Thor said, bringing two plates to the counter.

Loki stared.

“Do you remember writing it?” Thor asked, setting down silverware and getting out the syrup.

“No. I remember… feeling that way lately,” Loki admitted. “But not telling you everything… fuck… this is… this isn’t. I don’t want us to be strangers, Thor, god, just, please forget what I said.”

“I can’t forget what you said, and if I could I wouldn’t want to. Come on, eat your breakfast. You probably haven’t had a proper meal for over thirty-six hours. We’ll sort it all out this afternoon on full stomachs.”

Loki stood blinking for several seconds, couldn’t think of a better idea, and sat down.

It was impossible to look across the counter. Loki stared straight down at the front of the borrowed sweatshirt, which was quaking with each thud of the heart behind it. Loki’s belly slowly flooded with butterflies and Loki’s legs began to shake, which made it impossible to hold a fork steady. The little slice of pancake speared on the ends of the tines slid off and landed on the plate again with a squelchy spatter of maple and butter.

“Shit, sorry,” Thor said, staring at Loki’s hand, speaking around a mouthful of breakfast before washing it down with orange juice. “Okay,” Thor began, taking a deep breath. “Let me, um, let me condense it really quickly, hang on a sec… All right, so, it’s mutual--I thought you knew that, sorry, it was stupid of me to assume. I thought we were already there. I’d been wondering if maybe the physical end of it made you uncomfortable, or just had no appeal, but then you started playing footsie and putting your head in my lap. It doesn’t make me nervous. And it does appeal to me.”

Loki stared blankly.

“Sex,” Thor clarified, seeming doubtful of having properly communicated. “With you. I’d like it, if you do want that side of things. But it’s okay either way. Sex or no sex. I’m in love with you too, so if you want to stick with footsie and cuddling, we can do that… Kissing would be nice, I think, but if you’d rather not, it’s not a problem... Lo? Are you okay?”

Loki’s face was slack and open, wide-eyed and shaking faintly from side to side. Thor’s face fell at the sight.

“Kiki?” Thor whispered, voice gone high and very small. Loki finally blinked.

“But, your letters,” Loki sputtered. “There haven’t been as many lately.”

Having said it aloud, Loki found it absurd.

“I know, I’m sorry,” Thor sighed. “I can’t figure out where to fit them in. We spend all of our days off together. On work-nights I do chores and errands and cook us dinner from five until you come over. I’ve been exercising during my lunch breaks to keep my nights free. I’ve tried getting up early to draw and write before work, but the days are still so short it’s too dark to see. I think I might get a bunch of lights and turn the carriage house into a studio-”

Loki cursed quietly.

“What’s wrong?”

“I’m a fool,” Loki breathed.

“Same here,” Thor shrugged. “I think we know which side of the family we got it from.”

Loki smiled gratefully and they quietly finished breakfast.

Afterward, Thor did the washing up while Loki sat on the sofa, reading the letter over and over.  

The whole world had survived a brush with death. If Loki’s words had succeeded, the contents of this house could’ve ceased to exist. The old, worn-smooth wooden floors might never again have creaked and whispered beneath Loki’s feet. The walls would no longer have held in the heat that kept Loki warm. The lights wouldn’t have shown it all to Loki’s eyes. Everything would have gone blank. Schrodinger’s home, in which anything could have been happening. Thor could’ve been alive and well and happy within its walls, or-

-Or not.

Loki’s eyes filled up with water.

Thor would have been lost, too. Another unknown. The two days of overlap in their orbits would’ve been be erased. The links broken and the pieces set adrift in mutual darkness. Thor, who was already growing more quiet and reserved with the passing of each year, would’ve been silenced entirely to Loki’s ears.

Loki looked up. Thor was across the house in the solarium, watering the Christmas tree and seeming to reflect an unlikely proportion of its light.

Thor had not thrown Loki out upon reading the letter. Had not frowned or stomped. Had not undergone any noticeable alteration whatsoever. Thor hadn’t liked the idea and had discarded it. Had probably wanted to stamp REQUEST DENIED across it in bright red letters and feed it into the fireplace before Loki’s eyes. Uranus, spinning sideways in its orbit; a bright, happy, blue fuck you to the rest of the solar system.

Loki got up and followed Thor out into the garden, seeing, along the way, more of the world that could have been lost. The flowers blooming all spring and summer and the Boston ivy going red in autumn. The cool spray of the sprinklers while pulling weeds on sunny days. The birdsong and butterflies. The scent of green on the breeze.

But, above all, Thor. Peach and gold, even in stormy weather, somehow gone brighter against grey skies. Smiling, with sharp eyes and teeth that should have been frightening, but were instead furthest from.

Loki thought I should have known. Because Neptune is Caelus is Uranus. If hope and love had been pumping through Loki’s veins, they would have been coursing through Thor’s too.

“The magnolia started blooming yesterday,” Thor said, audibly drawing a deep breath to take in its scent.

“They’re older than bees,” Loki remembered, pulling down a branch to smell the blossom. “Probably pollinated by beetles.”

“Mmm. They smell the way come tastes,” Thor said, and Loki snorted.

“What sort of dicks have you been sucking?”

“You don’t think so?”

“I’m sure I’ve just been blowing the wrong people,” Loki sighed. “At this point, sex always tastes like my next prescription for azithromycin.”

Loki heard Thor’s low laughter and saw the broad shoulders shaking out of the corner of one eye. Not laughing at, but with. Everyone knew how many condoms the athletes went through at the Olympic games--it had become a standard component of the coverage--and everyone could, therefore, easily imagine how many they didn’t use.

The slate paving stones sent their chill up through the bare soles of Loki’s feet on the way back into the house. The Christmas tree showed an increasingly luminous orange in the window as the sky above went black with thunderheads.

“Did you put new lights on the tree?” Loki asked, as they stepped back up into the living room.

“Yeah, I used the ones I have for Halloween since it’ll be Hexennacht soon. I always want to put up a sign to invite trick-or-treaters back on April thirtieth.”

“I’ll bet you give out full size candy,” Loki smiled, dropping onto the sofa with a happy sigh and a cottony whoosh of air from inside the cushions.

“At least three different kinds,” Thor confirmed, joining Loki on the couch. “Plus those little bags of chips and fistfuls of assorted minis.”

“Reese’s peanut butter cups?” Loki tried, turning to plant two very cold feet on Thor’s lap before wiggling the toes to invite the warmth of Thor’s fingers.

“Always,” Thor nodded solemnly, then took the bait and began a foot rub.

“Hmmm… Snickers?”

“Yep.”

“Kit-Kats?”

“Sometimes.”

“What else?”

“M&Ms, usually. Plus Nerds, Skittles, and Starbursts for the folks with allergies.”

“Nice,” Loki purred, as Thor’s fingers threaded between the toes. “I’ll bet a lot of kids stop at your house twice.”

“They do,” Thor laughed.

“And you let them.”

“Of course.”

 _Of course_ , Loki’s head echoed, and realized it would always be as easy as asking.

Give us a kiss. And your undivided attention. Every moment of your free time. And the answers to even my nosiest questions. Give me your eyes and lay your heart at my feet. We share so much blood already they’re half mine anyway.

After ten minutes spent kneading, cupping, and rubbing Loki’s toes, Thor huffed.

“This is hopeless, you’re frozen. Do you want a fire?”  

“I thought I told you I knew a better way to keep us warm,” Loki yawned, stretching, driving the Achilles tendons down across Thor’s right thigh.

Thor grinned and bent in half to kiss the tops of Loki’s feet.

Earth didn’t crumble and the windows didn’t break. There were no searchlights or sirens. No horsemen or flames.

They creaked their way up the staircase, with its steps worn smooth and low at the centers, and went to Thor’s bathroom to brush their teeth.

Loki got done first and went back out to the bedroom, then undressed and sat on the mattress, waiting. Staring down at knobby knees and hollow thighs. At the stomach that was simultaneously sunken and soft. At skin that was the color of something that lived in a cave.

Thor came out of the bathroom looking like a Praxiteles. Better than, really. Discobolus or Laocoön. Beauty that should have been intimidating, but was instead reassuring, possessing something that felt timeless and familiar, and was therefore a comfort. Safe. Constant. Immortal.

“I think I’ll have that fire now, if it’s still on the table,” Loki said.

Thor hummed and nodded and went over to light it.

“Is déjà déjà vu a thing?” Loki asked, seeing the halo of sparks around Thor’s silhouette. “Because I’m pretty sure I’ve got it.”

Thor laughed and came over, smelling like smoke and birch, and grabbed Loki’s feet again.

“Still cold,” Thor sighed, with a shake of the head, and went off to root around in the dresser, then returned with thick, fleecy socks and wrestled them onto Loki’s feet.

It was not the world that Loki was accustomed to. Sex had always been about being sexy. Showing off. Making a good first impression because it would also be your last. Guts were sucked in and shoulders were thrown back. Necks and spines were held long and straight. Kisses were forceful and filthy for a few seconds before they were abandoned for elaborate sucking and fucking.

But here Loki was slouching and Thor was offering a robe. Foreplay consisted of bundling up under all the blankets and huddling together until the fire was roaring and Loki’s feet were finally at ninety-eight point six degrees.

And then Thor’s mouth went everywhere, but softly and so specifically. In lip-shaped, square inch increments. Each kiss felt like the signature given upon taking delivery of something. It seemed that afterward there wouldn’t be any of Loki left. It would all be Property of Thor Buri. Better than a scapegoat. A lamb. A vessel. Surrogate, saint, and sacrifice.

The thoughts flooded Loki with a sense of absolution so delicious it proved impossible to remain awake.

Loki came to, comfortably tucked under Thor’s right arm, and tried to recall where they’d left off. The ribs, maybe. Possibly the top of the stomach.

“Sorry,” Loki said, and slurped up the drool that tried to slide out with the word.

“Why? Did you fart?”

“No, I passed out.”

“Oh, right. Well, you’re fine either way.”

Loki laughed and hummed into Thor’s shoulder.

“I didn’t mean to fall asleep though,” Loki murmured. “I’m not bored.”

“I know,” Thor soothed. “It’s the relief. It’s making me sleepy too.”

Loki nodded and they traded lazy kisses to the cheeks and noses, sometimes nipping at the lips and dragging their teeth across each other’s chins.

“Where were you when I nodded off?” Loki asked, and Thor pointed to the place, four inches below the left nipple on the peak of a rib. “Can you start again?”

“Mmmhmm,” Thor smiled, then opened the rest of the robe, stripped away the socks, and leaned in.

The belly was a thrill. Loki had always been glad when partners ignored it before, afraid that they’d discover and dislike how soft it was. But now it seemed a perfect match for Thor’s lips and kisses. And the skin was more perceptive than Loki had ever given it credit for. It sent little thrills shooting out across the breast and shivering up the neck. The muscles that backed the navel were assisting, flexing to make a stable base so that sensations wouldn’t be lost among the coils of insensible organs but would instead be pinged through nerves and muscles and picked up clearly by the mind.

Loki expected Thor to skip over the entirety of the pelvis and start afresh at the feet, but Thor didn’t. The same soft kisses fell everywhere, and it was their consistency that became maddening. When they continued onto the legs, they became a torment, moving further and further from the hips, then, unexpectedly, growing quite satisfying at the ankles and arches. It was heavenly to look down the bed and see Thor kneeling with a heel against the teeth.

Thor reversed more quickly, following the centerline of the back of the right leg, seeming to trace the seam of an invisible vintage stocking. At the joint of the thigh, Thor finally stopped teasing and lapped at the smooth, shiny skin in its black wreath of fur. Long strokes with a flattened tongue that touched as much as it could at once. Thor kept it up until Loki shook, braced, bent, and broke.

“Where do you find the patience for yourself?” Loki panted, staring glassy-eyed and dazzled at Thor’s face.

Thor grinned, slid the socks back onto Loki’s bony feet, and dropped down on the bed with a bounce.

“For a minute there I was worried you might kick me,” Thor admitted. “But I couldn’t resist a little self-indulgence.”

“If that’s what passes for self-indulgence in you, then don’t ever attempt self-improvement.”

Thor hummed and tickled Loki’s waist.

“And what would you like?” Loki whispered.

“Your hands,” Thor said simply. “I’ve always loved your hands.”

It left Loki’s eyes free to catch the flush that crept over Thor’s breast and throat. Let Loki’s mouth taste the way their bodies had mingled on Thor’s lips and tongue.

At the end, Loki saw Thor pass from release to relief to sleep. The differences between the stages were so subtle. Loki wondered if the hands that had brought about the changes possessed the skill to draw them.

 

After a short nap they went off to the shower and took advantage of the detachable head, washing only where they needed it. Loki was glad not to have to deal with wet hair again, and glad to see a side of Thor that had never solidly existed before. To see how quickly the bar of soap spun as Thor pumped it in long fingers. To see where Thor’s hands were fast and rough and where they moved more carefully. See Thor hop on one foot while patting the other dry.

Loki had always heard that such a lack of privacy destroyed something. Killed romance by ending mystery and shattering illusions. But Loki saw the fear that fueled those beliefs now. The disdain for the realities of bodies. The rejection of parts of a partner. There was no part of Thor that Loki didn’t want. Nothing Loki wished to miss. Perhaps it was greedy, but it felt infinitely preferable to being disgusted or indifferent.  

There seemed to be an electric arc between them as they dressed and drove back to Loki’s apartment. It lit the world from an unfamiliar angle and turned it into something new. Walking down the steps to Loki’s room was better now. They could kiss against the back of the door after they passed through. And in the kitchen. And on the bed too.

Thor sent a text when they stopped for a breather and they heard Loki’s phone chime from somewhere close by. They searched under blankets and pillows and then bent and saw the little light pulsing beneath the bed.

When Loki checked, the most recent message read _Are you free after work tomorrow?_

“Yes, I’m free.”

The text that had been sent on Sunday night said _I’m back from Volstagg’s. Are you up for a sleepover?_

“Were you planning to put the moves on me?” Loki asked, aiming the screen at Thor’s eyes, turning the irises into glowing twins of icy blue in the otherwise dim room.

“I was going to ask first,” Thor defended. “But I was feeling pretty optimistic.”

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> i don't have time to add the visuals rn. 
> 
> please don't comment or repost.


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